Poison (and Light) in Victory
by Scorpio Grudge
Summary: Voldemort's death brings a similar fate for the Death Eaters, past and present.


[Characters are the creation of JK Rowling. I am not claiming them as my own, nor attempting to make money from them, and neither should you.]

Poison (and Light) in Victory

a story by Scorpio Grudge

* * *

The wizarding world celebrated once again. Voldemort had fallen for good this time. After would come the celebration for the fallen heroes. Good people who had died to save the world from Voldemort's dark reign of terror... 

It sounded so cliche that many couldn't bring themselves to be concerned about those who didn't survive. Heroes? Dark reign of terror? Nonsense. Voldemort was dead. Why bother getting all maudlin? 

The office was unchanged, and even Fawkes sat resolutely upon his perch there. No one dared disturb what felt like the true final resting place of Albus Dumbledore. No dust gathered here, and even the paintings of the former headmasters and mistresses had emptied. Aside from the phoenix, the room was still. 

One person dared breach the strange peaceful void of the room. He had cast aside his robes and jacket the day Voldemort had fallen, knowing the wizarding attire was nothing for him now. His robe was little more than a death shroud with both Voldemort and Dumbledore gone. 

Not one other person in the world could possibly understand it, nor did he care to attempt to explain. With Dumbledore gone, there would be no one to champion his cause of the reformed Death Eater. With just one person willing to stand for him, it was bearable, and he had refuge at Hogwarts because of that person. 

No champion, no refuge now though. Not that it mattered. He had come to the office of his champion to die. 

There was a soft trill from his back, and the warm weight of the phoenix settled on his shoulder. He reached up and stroked the bird's plumed head. "Hello, Fawkes. Do you miss Albus?" 

Fawkes trilled again, rubbing his head against the man's hand. They stayed this way for a moment, and then thick, white tears started to run slowly down his arm. 

"It won't help, Fawkes. I'm dying and there's nothing to be done." Oh, the tears burned a little as they rolled across the remains of the Dark Mark on his arm, but there was certainly no healing happening. No, with Voldemort's death, the Dark Mark "granted" to each Death Eater was now eating away slowly. 

Lucius Malfoy was already dead, a week ago in the middle of the night. Cold and stiff, a grimace on his face, and his left hand curled into a claw, grotesquely shriveled. Eyes open, he had known what was happening in the end and had simply been overcome by the poison, the rot. 

Perhaps it was Snape's treason to Voldemort that allowed him to last this long, longer than the others. Embracing the light didn't grant survival though, just a temporary repose from it. His death would come soon enough, and then the Death Eaters would be well and truly gone. "What is it like, Fawkes?" Snape said quietly, still stroking the soft feathers. "What is that final moment like? Does it hurt?" 

With a soft trill, Fawkes took to the air, and landed on the top of the elaborately carved cabinet behind the desk. The phoenix's golden eyes fixed on Snape. 

"What is it? Something in there?" If he hadn't been a Death Eater in his final time, Snape wouldn't have dared opening the cabinet, sullying what remained of Dumbledore here. But things were different, and Fawkes had a reason for this. If there was one being outside of Dumbledore Snape trusted, it was Fawkes, as foolish as it might seem to others. 

The bird had the ex-headmaster's same capacity for love and trust and understanding. It made Snape miss the old man even more. "All right, Fawkes. Your judgment is better than mine. Promise you'll vouch for me when they accuse me of stealing." A smile of self-mockery graced Snape's tired features as he pushed himself out of the chair. "I notice you avoided my question though. I suppose there's simply nothing to be done though. I know how strongly you guard your secrets." 

Fawkes bobbed his head as if in agreement. 

The cabinet doors opened as Snape's touched them. Charmed to his identity? How odd. Inside there was a wide array of magical trinkets that Snape knew Dumbledore had always enjoyed collecting. And there, on the bottom shelf, was a pensieve. Curious, Snape removed it and returned to the chair. Fawkes did as well, making odd hooting noises. 

"Your best owl impression, Fawkes? Not bad. Now about this pensieve..." 

Leaning down, the phoenix rubbed his head against Snape's cheek. 

"Dive right in, then? I hope I'm not being set up for anything," he said quietly, then touched the milky surface. 

There was the standard falling sensation, and if not for the man behind the desk, he wouldn't have reckoned it worked. 

"Now, Fawkes," Albus Dumbledore said, "I realize he may not return here, but if so, you must give him this pensieve." Said pensieve was on the desk. "You'll have to bear witness to this one-sided conversation for now." 

Fawkes, looking to be just a day or two from his burning, didn't respond from his perch. 

"Severus, the specifics as to how you came to have this pensieve in your possession are unimportant. I have to admit something to you that I find difficult. The Dark Mark... It..." For a moment, Albus massaged his forehead, looking very tired. 

Snape knew that look. It was the same way the old man looked after the werewolf incident back in his school days. Fear seized him. This would be bad. Though... how bad could it be? Worse than death at this point? Doubtful. 

"The Dark Mark, given to all Death Eaters, we think it has some sort of poisonous connection with Voldemort." 

"I could have told you that, Albus." 

"I'm sure you know this." 

Snape smirked. 

"There's nothing to be done. No amount of disenchantment will destroy it. I'm sure you know this too. I don't know if you're aware of the concept that when Voldemort is destroyed--and he will be; I will hold no other possibility--the Dark Mark may kill you." The old man's eyes reddened. "I'm sorry." 

"It's quite all right, Albus. Don't trouble yourself over it," Snape said amicably. "It's long overdue." 

"I'm sorry I wasn't... I didn't do a better job protecting the school. There were times I didn't do the right thing, made the wrong decision. I failed James and Lily. I failed Sirius. I failed you. I hope I won't fail Harry. I already know I've failed too many of your students. Forgive me." 

"There was nothing to be done. Those students you believe you've failed were gone long before you had a chance. Eleven years of living and breathing tales of power and glory under Voldemort did it. You didn't fail; their parents did." Snape's shifted uncomfortably. That wasn't entirely true, but close enough that here it didn't matter. 

"So there is one last thing I would like you to do." 

Snape stiffened. Dumbledore compelling him from beyond the grave? 

"A favor to do at your discretion. If you don't wish to do it, well..." A tired smile. "There's not much I can do about it. But I beg you to do an old man a favor. You might find some peace in it yourself." 

"All right, old man, talk," Snape said, scowling. 

*******

The end came fast. Snape had been dozing in the chair in front of the fire when he had abruptly come wide awake. The fire was suddenly rushing through his veins. "Fawkes," he croaked as it reached his throat, "deliver it--" 

The fire hit his brain, and as quick as Avada Kedavra, he was dead. 

Fawkes landed on the leg of the dead man and trilled mournfully. A single tear fell and hit the left forearm, right on the ugly, green mark. It sizzled, sending up small puffs of smoke, but a few seconds later the smoke, and the Dark Mark along with it, was gone. 

Spreading his wings to their full width, Fawkes lifted himself silently into the air, swooped over the desk and grabbed the wrapped package that waited there, then burst through the window. 

*******

"Harry, there's a package for you!" 

"I'm busy here, Sirius. I'll get it later." 

"Better come down here. It won't leave the package." 

With a sigh, Harry dropped his Dark Arts text. Though more dangerous, apprenticing under a Dark Arts hunter was more challenging and interesting than turning into a glorified grunt as an auror at the Ministry. Two years as an apprentice and then he would be able to write his own ticket because there was always a need for someone knowledgable in the Dark Arts and how to eradicate them. Whether a hex or curse, magical creature, or even as a teacher, the possibilities were almost endless. 

Unless he kept getting interrupted during his studies. Grumbling, Harry took his time heading downstairs. There was a reason he sat up in that dusty, windowless attic after all, though no one seemed to care. "Who's it from?" 

"Come and take a look," was Sirius' cryptic answer. 

When Harry stepped through the doorway to the kitchen, he gasped involuntarily. "Fawkes!" 

The phoenix sitting on the table trilled and released the package. 

Harry's hand strayed absently to the bird's head and stroked it. "Thanks, Fawkes." It was clear his attention was on the package. "I wonder what it is." 

"Open it and see," Sirius urged him. "If Fawkes delivered it, then I doubt there's anything to worry about. I mean, it almost has to be from..." 

"How?" Harry said softly. 

"I don't know, but Fawkes is here." 

With a reluctant nod, Harry unwrapped the package under the phoenix's watchful eye. "A pensieve?" It was a plain pensieve, not at all ornate like some of the ones he'd seen. "Do you think this is...?" 

"We can go together." 

Fawkes gave a soft warble in agreement. 

Together, Harry and Sirius touched the surface of the pensieve and were pulled in. 

"Dumbledore's office," Sirius said. 

But that man at the desk wasn't the headmaster. 

"I suppose," Snape said, "I do the same thing Albus did. Fawkes, you're going to have to play witness again. I know you'll deliver this when the time comes. Now, if someone is watching this then I am most assuredly dead. I will give Fawkes the request to deliver it at the last possible moment, so there's no need to feel embarrassed about what's in here. 

"Voldemort is dead, and nothing makes me happier. However, with Albus' death, I can never return to society; he was the one that held my redemption. It doesn't matter though because this--" He pushed up the sleeve of his robes to reveal the ever-increasing deformation of the Dark Mark on his arm. "--will kill me before anyone even thinks of me. You should take delight in that, Potter. 

"And Albus asked a favor of me in the same way you're receiving that favor. I don't know what will happen to me exactly, but I plan on making this the last place I see, not some miserable dungeon. 

"Thank you, Fawkes. I think that's about it." 

The memory faded, as did the office, and there was the feeling of falling again. 

When the world reasserted itself, the surroundings of the two visitors was King's Cross station. A horde of students milled about, all waiting to board the Hogwarts Express. 

"Oh my God," Sirius said softly. 

Harry looked up at his godfather briefly before following his gaze. "What is it?" 

"My first year of school. Did Snape actually...?" 

There was a shout and laughing from behind them. A thin, slightly unpleasant looking boy was shoved aside as two other boys pushed past. "Sorry about that, mate!" the one with the glasses called back, but kept moving. "Wait for me, Sirius!" 

"My... dad," Harry said, and felt a monumental lump in his throat. 

There was a brief moment where the boy regained his feet and scowled at the retreating pair, and then the scene shifted. 

This time it was the sorting, and all the first years were gathered on the stairs. There they were, James and Sirius, at the top of the stairs, talking and laughing. Looking around, Harry spied someone he thought was Remus Lupin, and standing at the railing, his mum. 

"I had forgotten all this," Sirius said quietly. "We were so young." 

Harry just watched as memory after memory played, each one showing his parents at Hogwarts. Quidditch, meals, classes, the dueling club (which Sirius winced at when his younger self was very competently blasted by Snape; "I think I started to hate him then."), and all the little moments in between. 

Seven years of memories, all in living, breathing color. Not even the photo album Hagrid had given him could really top this. 

They left the pensieve, and Harry immediately clutched at Sirius, stifling sobs. 

"Maybe," Sirius said quietly as he hugged Harry, "I was too hard on the bastard..." 

**END**


End file.
